


Blood on the Carpet

by Tyranno



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding, Death Threat, Gen, Happy Ending, Mild Gore, amateur/impromptu surgery, bonding over child endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 16:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4399901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian is kidnapped. He escapes, but alone and hiding in a city like Gotham it's hard to believe there's anyone on his side.</p><p>Tim and Jason's assignment is to protect Gotham and to protect Damian, and one half of that is starting to go awry...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on the Carpet

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from an idiom used for saying that someone will be very angry when they find out about something.
> 
> A lot of batfam bonding fics are very Dick-centric, and while I love him with all my heart, it's pretty hard to forge bonds with someone you hate if you don't have to.

Damian's eyes flickered open. 

“So glad you could make it, little birdy...” 

Damian jolted at the noise. It took a few agonizing moments for his eyes to adjust. The only light hung from above him, bathing the square room a thick, grimy yellow. The air tasted of neglect. 

His eyes took a moment to focus on his kidnappers. The three that he could see were muscular and pale, gym rats most likely. Dark green and blue tattoos of snake-like dragons stood out in sharp contrast to their pasty skin. He heard movements of another behind him, and as he twisted the man came into view. He was fatter than the others, beer belly wobbling, and he tottered up the stairs, carrying something large and limp. 

“Don't worry about Tiny,” The tallest one said, “He's just dealing with… other business endeavours.” 

Damian narrowed his eyes, and felt around his back. His legs weren't tied to the chair, but his hands were tied firmly behind him, looped through the chair's metal bars. He still had his mask, which was a relief. His side felt strangely heavy, but he ignored it. 

“Now, little bird, it'll take a little while for Mr. Bats to turn up, so what do you say I tell you my long and extensive plan, yeah? Would you like that, kid?” 

Damian snorted, and caught the knob of knots tying his hands together between his finger and thumb. He set to work, tugging at the rope as delicately as he could. Hopefully he could pass it off as nervous shuffling. 

“As if, right? But I guess it's only a matter of time until you find out what's in your stomach...” 

Damian froze. 

His blood ran cold. 

His stomach. He leant forward, and could feel something boxy and hard trap between his hips and ribs. Oh, god.

Damian forced his fingers to move again. They were numb, and clumsy, dropping the knot over and over. He struggled free, feeling the string fall away like dropping shackles. 

Damian leapt out of his chair. 

The tallest one was first to drop, a crushed windpipe. He spun on his toes, catching the other in the temple with his heel. The third dropped like a stone, one busted knee. 

“How do I deactivate it?” Damian snarled at the third one, clutching at his side. He could feel it under his uniform, a lump of hard plastic. 

The third laughed, blood spurting from his nose. “Heck if I know!” 

Damian spat, slamming him into the concrete. Of course they wouldn't know. They were stupid, ugly thugs. Whoever had employed them had chosen well. Whoever it was wasn't one of the show-boating rogues, too interested in playing the game to finish it once and for all, to ruin all that fun. It was a small time villain, a drug cartel or a human trafficker. Or... Ra's Al Ghul. Damian shook his head firmly. There was only one way to find out. 

He thundered up the stairs. 

Upstairs was an even smaller box storage room, lockers and half-full boxes crowded the room, tripping him up. The room smelt heavily of formaldehyde and mould, making him cough. 

Tiny saw him coming, dropping a body bag and rushing him. 

Damian leapt at him, but overbalanced, the extra weight throwing him off. Tiny caught his ankle, and slammed him against the lockers. 

It was like being hit by a bullet train. 

Stars exploded behind his eyes, all sense knocked from his head. He couldn't think, he only saw white. Pain completely took him over. 

Tiny slammed him again, and Damian choked back blood. 

Tiny gripped him by his thin ribs and smashed him again. 

Damian struggled, lungs refusing to work, arms weak and heavy. He managed to twist around to reach Tiny's arm, and he bit down. Hard. 

Tiny yelped and dropped him, snatching his hand back. 

Damian breathed heavily, weak on the floor like a fish out of water. His arms shook, and his vision span. He dragged another haggard breath in. 

Tiny glared death. “You're lucky Boss wants you alive.” 

“Wh... who d-do…?” Damian's ribs shook as he spoke, crackling like an old radio. 

Tiny snatched him by his hair and yanked him upwards. Damian flopped around wildly, like a fish on a hook. “Now, Little birdy,” Tiny breathed, “It doesn't really matter, does it?” 

Damian's teeth sunk into Tiny's cheek. 

Tiny howled, slapping him away. He reeled back, clutching at his face. “Filthy rat!” Tiny screeched, blood running through his fingers. 

Damian hobbled away, panic rising in his chest. He reached the fire door, yanking at it with slippery fingers. 

“Oh no you don't!” There was a rasp of metal against metal as Tiny picked up something heavy. “You're dead! You little shit!” 

Damian shoved against the door and it flew open. He half-ran half-fell down the metal staircase, shaking under his weight. 

The Gotham evening was cold and stung his skin, and he stumbled forwards, heart beating loudly in his chest. There was a smash of brick as whatever Tiny had been wielding hit the wall. 

A crowbar. 

Damian shivered, shoving himself forward. 

 

*

 

“I can't believe it,” Red Robin muttered as the very un-dynamic duo stood awkwardly in the old building. “We're two weeks on the job and Robin's already been kidnapped.” 

Red hood grinned. “You have to admit, that is kind of impressive.” 

The building was slumped, leaning slightly worryingly to the right. The air tasted dust, and heavy with chemicals. The whole atmosphere reminded Red Robin of an abandoned school store room, complete with the busted-up old-fashioned lockers in the empty room upstairs. It had been surprisingly hard to find, what with the new Robin not having a regular patrol pattern and instead liking to roam unpredictably and “catch them off guard”. 

Tim hadn't bothered trying to explain that the controlled but randomized patrol patterns everyone else used meant that the criminals wouldn't know, but the rest of the bat family would be able to contact him, but now he wished he had. He might be an irritatingly entitled demon brat sent from hell to torment them, but he was still only eleven. 

The first two unlucky kidnappers they'd dragged outside to wait for an ambulance and think about what they'd done. 

The last they'd tied to a chair. 

“Now, scum-bag,” Red hood squatted down, looked the kidnapper in the eye, “Are you going to play ball or do I have to get dangerous?” 

The kidnapper's head jerked upwards. “Fuck do you want? I ain't scared of you.” 

Red hood flipped a gun from his belt, turning it over in his hands. “Well, I hate to disappoint...” 

“Where's Robin?” Red Robin demanded, suddenly. 

The kidnapper started. “Uh, he escaped.” 

“Which way?” 

“Upstairs.” The kidnapper jerked towards the open door, “Used the fire exit. Tiny sounded really pissed, though, might've killed the lad himself.” 

Red Robin took a step towards the stairs. “Tiny?” 

“Big guy. Don't know think it's his real name.” The kidnapper tugged at the ropes. “Are you gonna let me go now?” 

The duo ran up the stairs, shoving the fire exit open. 

“Hey!” The kidnapper called after them. 

They looked down. 

The street below was cold and grey. Litter fluttered like greasy autumn leaves from the skips. It was empty. 

“Shit,” Red Robin glared down at it, but Red hood was running down, the metal creaking and swinging with his weight. “Wait! Red hood!” 

Red hood stopped impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Robin's in one of these gutters!” 

“We've got to go back, check the security cameras first.” Red Robin searched the streets for footprints, but didn't find any. Dry street, he cursed. 

“By the time we get back to the cave, it could be too late!” Red hood snarled. 

“We can't just run around back alleys forever! We need to do this methodically!” Red Robin leant over the railing. 

Red hood's temper flared, “I'm not going to sit on my ass while—” 

“If we go in blind, it could take days!” Red Robin yelled. 

Red hood glowered and spat curses. 

“You're letting your emotions drive you. You're being irrational.” Red Robin took a few steps forward. 

“Don't psycho-analyse me.” Red hood spat, glare levelling with Red Robin's. “I know what Gotham's like. If you try to play it safe, it'll kill him before this night ends.” 

“I'm not—!” Red Robin cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He always viewed himself as a very reasonable, level-headed person, but he should know himself better by now.

Tim hadn't met anyone who got under his skin so quickly and so effortlessly as Jason did. Except maybe Damian. They took his carefully calm exterior and brought out an angry, reckless side of him in an instant, something he hated with all of his might. But Dick or Bruce weren't here to pull them apart, so he'd have to be the more mature one. Again. 

“I'm waiting, Red Robin.” Red hood growled. 

“Look, just—” Red Robin took a deep breath. “Here's a compromise. I'll go back and check the security feeds and put them through to you on your communicator. On a few conditions.” 

Red hood straightened up, on guard. “Yeah…?” 

“First, you'll listen to me, and you won't destroy your communicator as soon as you get irritable. And when I give an order, you'll listen. Sure, you can bitch about it, but I don't tell you what to do because I like it.” Red Robin tilted his head, “Most of the time. And you won't start busting crime rings or stopping drug dealers, we need to stay focused.” 

Red hood grinned. “Anything else?” 

Red Robin shrugged. “That's all, probably.” 

Red hood leapt from the stairs, landing with a cloud of dust. “Aye aye, Cap'n.” He muttered.

 

*

 

Damian got rid of his cape in one of the gutters, tying the fabric around a bin bag and dropping it in a skip, breathing heavily. 

It was the most noticeable part of his costume, and without it he felt vulnerable. It was stupid, and he pushed the feeling aside; if anything the cape was a liability, a tag-on of his father's legacy, the amount of times he'd been snagged with it or dragged around by it was rather shameful. 

But the reality was, he was trying to be nameless. Another of Gotham's street urchins. It wouldn't do for Todd or Drake to pick him up too soon, and for them to all die in a blaze of glory in the bat-cave. 

That was the goal, he'd deduced. You wouldn't need to find where the bat-cave would be. As soon as the signal disappeared in the lead-lined cave, ka-boom. It was probably set to detonate as soon as it stopped receiving a signal.

Damian tore the domino mask from his face, folding it up and slipping it into the pod of spares on his belt. The street was duller without the mask's enhanced vision. 

He hobbled onwards, slipping into a grimy back-alley that smelt like it had never seem the light of day. In the shadows, he slumped to the ground. Moment of truth.

Damian quickly popped open his vest, and peered at his side. 

His skin was stretched over a small rectangular box, about the length of his finger and the width of his palm. The stitches were holding, mostly, but the skin around it was raw and puckered. No signs of infection, which was one less thing to worry about. 

It looked horrible. Something foreign under his skin. It was only his survival training that kept him from pulling out a batarang and cutting it free, once and for all. He desperately, desperately wanted to. 

But an explosion here would mean so much collateral damage. He was in the poorer part of town, which meant a much denser population. Even if they survived the blast any injuries meant they wouldn't be able to function, no money for healthcare. And they'd be homeless. 

He knew where he had to go. 

Gotham Harbour was nearly empty this time of year. It was a cold November, people stored their expensive yachts somewhere in the Caribbean, and even trade by boat was at a lull. Nobody would be at the pier either. He was trained to work underwater, and the water pressure would deaden the blow.

Damian stood, arm shaking. He was tired, and scared, but he had a few miles to go before he could rest. 

 

*

 

“Why do you think he's hiding? Surely Robin would just call up Alfred and he'd be picked up in no time.” Tim wondered through the communicator, flipping through security cameras. Bruce had, in his ultimate wisdom, already built a computer system that searched through the city's network of security cameras, but there had been hundreds and hundreds of results. 

“I don't know. I wish you'd have let me put a tracker on that brat,” Jason jerked his bike up to leap into down yet another grimy Gotham alley, passing unconscious drunk after unconscious drunk. It was less déjà vu and more being stuck in a constant loop.

“No can do. If any computer whiz notices an outgoing signal, they'll probably be able to hack it. Even if I do try my hardest, codes aren't my speciality,” Tim flipped open another window. “I'm going to try facial recognition.” 

“Don't bother,” Jason glanced down a dark alleyway, and ducked his head around a skip. Nothing. What, had all the street children taken a holiday? 

“What? Why?” Tim was trying it anyway. It wasn't like he had anything to lose. 

“Haven't you noticed? The kid angles his face away from every security camera in Gotham. If he can't do that, he ducks behind someone. I bet he doesn't even know he's doing it. That's how he was trained, probably. Can't have an assassin caught on tape, that'd be a rookie mistake.” Jason slowed the bike to avoid street kids, slow speed irritating him no end. Every second wasted widened the search area, especially if getting beaten up confused the kid. “Especially journalists, when they—… oh, crap, I think I know why he's running.” 

“Oh yeah?” Tim closed down the window, and returned unhappily to flipping through security cameras that matched the description. 

“Yeah. Public image.” Jason reached a main road, and swerved back into another mess of back streets. It was incredibly unlikely that Robin had got desperate enough to emerge in such a public space, so he didn't even look. “Think about it. First the CEO of Wayne Enterprises mysteriously dies. Then the next, very young CEO of Wayne Enterprises disappears on a business trip nobody can find any information on. And now the former CEO's son turns up beaten half to death in an alleyway. Wayne Enterprise's is very precarious in its public image right now, a little shock could bring its investors down dramatically.” 

“That's just… really stupid.” Tim sucked in a breath. For anyone else, that wouldn't make any sense. Public Image verses Self Preservation is a money-or-life situation. It would be a no-brainer. But Damian was not exactly anyone else. 

Jason huffed a laugh. “Natural selection in process, I guess.” 

Tim's mood soured. “Don't say that.” 

Jason nodded. “Aye aye, cap'n.” 

 

*

 

Damian slumped behind a skip, breathing heavily. 

Tiny hadn't given him any grievous wounds, nothing he'd needed to bandage, but the huge bruises that spread along his sides were tender and ached like hell. It felt like his ribs were crushed in a vice, too tight to move, too tight to breath. 

Now he'd sat down, he didn't think he could get up. 

He pressed his hands to his sides, trying to regulate his breathing. Panic was rising in his stomach, curling through his belly like vines, but he couldn't give in to it now. Panicking would be activating the tracker on his belt. Panicking would be gouging out the bomb himself. Panicking would be dying a failure. 

In the League Of Assassins, death is a failing, but the most honourable kind. Assassins hope for a good death, death after achieving the objective, death by an insurmountable force. Damian had always known he would never die of old age. 

He heaved himself up. 

His insides burned, prickling uncomfortably under his vest. 

Damian stumbled forwards. The docks were only a few blocks away. He cradled his stomach, and pushed on. 

 

*

 

“Ha! Gotcha,” Tim muttered, zooming in on the video feed. 

“Good. Where?” Jason stopped the bike, glancing around the alley. He'd been sweeping closer to the bat-cave's entrance as the night went on, but there had been absolutely no sign of him. His patience was wearing thin, and worry began to curl in his chest. He really hoped history wouldn't repeat itself, but it might just. 

“He seems to be heading towards the docks…?” Tim muttered. “He seems to be in pretty bad shape. Probably broken ribs.” 

Jason nodded, pulling his bike onto the main road, speeding towards Gotham Harbour. He just hoped he'd be in time. 

 

*

 

Damian watched the black waters move softly and silently under him. 

He knew he should be quick. If he was spotted, and they ran to help, they'd be collateral. But he couldn't be quick. 

It was quiet. The sea moved gently. 

There was a rev of an engine. 

Damian leapt. 

The water crush in on him, freezing and vicious. He let all the air from his lungs in a tide of bubbles, pushing himself deeper into the sea. 

He stabbed the batarang into his side. 

Pain lanced through him and his hand shook. It was too shallow, he tried to tug out the bomb but his fingers were too numb, moved stiffly. He scrabbled at it but his movements were weak. His head was light, and the lack of oxygen was making him dizzy. 

Strong arms snatched him up and dragged him to the surface.

Damian struggled. 

“Whoa, kid, you got something against being rescued?” Red hood threw Robin onto the pier, dragging himself out of the water. 

Damian landed roughly, choking. His arms shook, batarang cold and hard and useless in his hand. He felt the gash in his side through the vest, stinging. 

Red hood crouched, just out of reach, waiting for Damian to finish coughing. He kept an eye on the watery blood dripping from the opened vest, but didn't comment on it. 

“What do you say we all go home now? It's been a pretty long night.” Red hood held out a hand. 

“-tt-” Damian ground out. “N-no.” 

“No?” Red hood raised an eyebrow, “Whoa, brat, you take unreasonable to a whole new level.” 

“There—There's a-a bo-bomb,” Damian's jaw refused to work, and he massaged it hard. “I-In m-my...” He gestured to his stomach. 

Red hood stared at him. Completely wordless, he crouched down and looked into Damian's shivering chest. He lifted the vest gently, frowning deeply at the large bump in Damian's blood-smeared side. “Shit, kid...” 

Damian slumped back onto his elbows, shivering. He felt tears prick behind his eyes, and he looked away sharply. 

Red hood pushed back on his haunches. “Hey, Red Robin? Yeah, there's been a little change of plans. Please tell me you know how to disarm a bomb.” 

Tim swallowed thickly. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Someone's stuck one in little bird here.” 

 

*

 

“Here, bite down on this.” Jason passed a scrap of leather towards Damian. 

Damian didn't snap anything back, which really worried Jason, instead he shot him a deathly glare and took the leather. 

They were still out on the pier. The day was coming in its vague quickness, spilling gold and pink onto the gentle waves. It was still silent, or as silent as it ever got in Gotham. Far away, someone shouted, and someone laughed, chiming hollow against the stone buildings. 

Jason's and Damian's utility belt had some disinfectant, which they had smeared over everything they could, and as thickly as they could. Jason knew it would sting like hell, but no more than what they were about to do would. 

“Three small incisions,” Tim murmured through the communicator. “Converging on the corner. They should open like flaps. It doesn't look like there's any muscle tissue involved, although I have no idea how it sealed so quickly… Can't go through the stitches, that's where I would have put the alarms, if it were me...” 

Jason nodded grimly. 

He'd made sure his own knives were sharper than the batarangs, thank god. He couldn't imagine hacking away at Damian with those blunt hunks of metal. 

Jason raised the blade, and Damian's breathing quickened under him. 

He made the first incision quickly and smoothly, and there was a crunch of leather as Damian gritted his teeth. Hard. 

Jason's knife slid through the flesh with horrifying ease. Blood welled under his blade and he desperately wanted to stop, but he knew it would be even harder to start again. 

In a few moments, it was over. 

He peeled back the flesh, wincing at the horrible smell, and slid the bomb out with surprising ease. 

Damian breathed thickly, eyelids fluttering. 

“Take five, kiddo,” Jason pulled himself up and hobbled away, knees weak, “You did great.” 

There was a grunt behind him, and Jason sat down at the pier's edge. He held the bomb up to the camera, and turned it around a couple times. “What'd you make of that, Replacement?” 

There was a crackle of keys through the communicator. “It's not an uncommon kind… there's a remote source that loops commands not to explode. As soon as the bomb stop receiving the signal...” 

Jason nodded. “Boom.” 

“It looks like the command diverts the charge away from the explosives constantly. Which hopefully that you can just dump the explosives in the water and it'll be a useless hunk of junk.” Tim tries to sound cheerful, but Jason can pretty much feel the tiredness in the kid's voice. “If we're lucky.” 

Jason peered down at the bomb. “And if we're unlucky…?” 

Tim hums. “I suppose I could put ads in the papers for vacancies.” 

Jason barks out a surprised laugh. “Alright, then we'll just be lucky.” 

 

*

 

Tim stood at the stairs of the bat-cave, watching his brothers hobble down. Relief flooded his chest, and even Damian's flat glare couldn't tarnish it. 

“I'm glad you're both alive,” He said, because he felt like he needed to say something. 

“So am I,” Jason muttered, “Are you ready to sew up what's left of Bruce's youngest?” 

Tim grinned, gesturing to the medical bed, freshly cleaned plastic gleaming in the monitor's light. “Always.” 

 

*

 

Red hood had been this close to losing a Robin. 

Even if it hadn't been his Robin, the little shouting brat had been under his care, he couldn't help but feel responsible. Even if he didn't want to. The kid had kind of grow on him, like germs in his immune system. He'd caught the brat like a cold, and denying it wouldn't make it go away. 

It was annoying, that's what it was. 

It wasn't cute or cuddly. No warm and fuzzy feeling. It was an irritating thought after irritating thought. Worrying was the worst of it, especially if he expressed any of it it was quickly shut down. 

But every time he went to criticize the ankle-biter, he saw the pier again. Damian's cold skin, his blood on Jason's hands, the rabbit-quick heartbeat under his skin. It was horrible, not to mention repetitive, like being smacked on the nose every time he misbehaved. But it worked, kind-of. 

The kid nearly bit his head off when he tried ruffling his hair. 

This whole family lark was a lot more trouble than it was worth. 

 

*

 

Tim taught Damian how to use the computer. 

It was relatively easy—Tim had already set up several programs that did things automatically that he used to just do himself, for emergencies and situations where he had to quickly explain how to use the computer. The computer was excellent, the sleekest, smoothest thing he'd ever have the good fortune to work with, but it couldn't think for itself. It needed someone on the other end to tell it exactly what to do, and how to do it. And it was harder than it sounded. 

Damian worked… passably. He was bratty and irritable, quick to snarl and spit, but with an exhausting amount of patience and refusal to be bated Tim managed to coerce Damian into learning things. (Tim found new respect for Dick's Buddah-like patience. If he'd had to deal with Damian's constant snaps he'd have probably killed him. Or, at least, busted his own eardrums to be in blissful silence). 

Damian worked best in thirty-minuet intervals, after which Tim would either call a break or disappear for a while to 'check on something'. Whether or not Damian saw through his thinly-veiled excuses was up for debate, but the boy didn't say anything. 

Tim watched him out of the corner of his eye. 

There was nothing quite like strapping a bomb to someone to make others realise their mortality. And it was much harder to hate a ten-year-old who'd tried to disarm a bomb on his own to protect his partner's life. 

He was no Dick Grayson, but he could work it out on the job. 

 

*

 

Damian found Todd and Drake to be marginally more amiable. He found himself bating them less and less as they stopped rising to it. He warily lowered his guard slightly, occasionally uncomfortably, but hid it well. He was glad he hadn't blown them up. 

 

*

 

Dick came back at Christmas, snow in his hair and cheeks ruby red. 

He pokes his head into the bat-cave, and does a double take. “It's looking pretty merry in here.” He grinned. 

Dick remembered when he was younger, trying to convince Bruce to decorate the cave. Bruce insisted he couldn't because the cave was a place to work, a place to cast off the feelings and frustrations of the day. Dick had snuck some golden tinsel around the computer's frame, and Bruce hadn't commented on it. 

But now the bat-cave was strung up with fairy lights, dazzling like a rainbow. The colours flickered on and off, changing, a tidal wave of moving colour. There was even a Christmas tree, dazzling with gold and silver decoration. 

“It was Drake,” Damian's sharp voice startled him. 

Dick glanced down to the computer. “Damian? Where are the others?” 

“On patrol. Or, specifically, returning,” Damian said, only slightly bitter. He closed the windows with a flick of his wrist, spinning his chair around. 

“You're hurt,” Dick jumps down the stairs, glancing at his littlest brother's form, trying to use x-ray vision. Tight bandages covered his brother's stomach, half-hidden by his open shirt. 

“-tt-” Damian grunted, crossing his arms. “What're they?” 

“Oh,” Dick shuffled his grip on the presents, metallic paper hard to keep a good grip on them. “Presents.” 

Damian rolled his eyes. “Both Drake and Todd are giving me plastic children's swords. They have very similar humours.” 

Dick buried his surprise with a knowing smile, but inside he was gob-smacked. When he'd left, the trio hadn't been on speaking terms, every small movement sparked a huge fight that took weeks to cool down from. Giving presents, even jokingly, was a huge leap forward. “What did you get them?” 

“I got Drake deodorant, and Todd a book on anger management for toddlers.” Damian smirked. 

“It sounds like you've got a humour close to theirs too,” Dick grinned. 

Damian shot his a look that softened after a second. “What did you get them? And me?” 

Dick pressed a finger to his lips. “It's a secret.” 

Damian stood up angrily, and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his stomach. He grimaced and clutched at his side. 

Dick's gaze grew worried and he looped his free arm around Damian's shoulders. “What happened?” 

“Someone sewed a bomb into my side.” Damian stated, matter-of-factly. He eased his weight from Dick's shoulders, gingerly putting strain on his barely healed scars. 

Dick's eyes widened. “What the—?! Are you alright?!”

“Yes. It didn't detonate. Todd cut it out and disposed of it. We suspect it was one of the organised crime rings, but we didn't want to investigate it until we had all our fighting force.” Damian straightened up as best he could, trying to keep pain from his face. 

“I was only gone a month...” Dick muttered quietly. He couldn't imagine Damian dead, didn't want to imagine it. He had come so close… 

Damian huffed. “It was a rather… productive month.” 

Dick glanced around the cave. The twinkling lights. Tim couldn't have done it all alone, or at least, wouldn't have the motivation to unless he thought someone else would appreciate it. Jason returning to the manor on a regular basis. Damian buying presents. 

Dick sighed. “I'll bet it was.”


End file.
